


I got you

by janie_tangerine



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, Porn Battle, Smut, Wishful Thinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-17
Updated: 2011-08-17
Packaged: 2017-10-22 17:36:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/240734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janie_tangerine/pseuds/janie_tangerine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>He found out all the places that make her moan and writhe and she found the ones that make him flush and tremble, and he likes that there are no expectations from him.</i> Written for the 12th porn battle. The prompts were <i>Jaime/Brienne</i>, <i>warmth</i> and <i>sweet</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I got you

**Author's Note:**

> Title from a Stone Temple Pilots song; I own nothing.

The last winter wasn’t as cold as this one, Jaime thinks often – but maybe he’s wrong and that long summer made him forget. Maybe he can’t help shake that feeling because during the last winter he donned a white cloak and shared his sister’s bed whenever there was the chance; King’s Landing hadn’t been  _that_  cold.

Surely he wasn’t living in what remains of Winterfell, and he wasn’t alive only because of his role in finding Sansa Stark and because Brienne somehow managed to convince all the northern lords that wanted his head that he could be trusted. If he were to go anywhere else, his head wouldn’t stay on his shoulders for long anyway – considering that he never went back to King’s Landing, they’re probably counting him as a turncloak. And the North is colder than any other place he has ever lived in.

Still, Jaime thinks, at least he isn’t currently wearing a white cloak and he’s not breaking any vows, and his bed is still warm, if not warmer.

If only because it’s shared every night.

At the beginning he couldn’t shake away the nagging feeling in the back of his head ( _she’s too tall, her hair’s straw and not gold, she’s the same size as you, her fingers aren’t as thin as they should_ ), but it was just him holding on to something that isn’t anymore, and it was a weak feeling to begin with. It couldn’t compete with what is now ( _she doesn’t need you but she_  wants  _you, she knows the full extent of what you lost but doesn’t think less of you for it, she_  knows _you and she’s still here_ ). Right now, he has learned that change isn’t necessarily bad.

He found out all the places that make her moan and writhe and she found the ones that make him flush and tremble, and he likes that there are no expectations from him. Not after she had realized how much exactly she liked not being a maid, anyway.

So that’s how it is now. The days are filled with snow and the nights are colder than the days, and whenever he comes inside their room from outside he’s shivering in the best of cases. Like now – he closes the door, putting away a cloak that hasn’t done much to protect him from the cold, and after taking off his clothes he joins her under the covers where she’s been waiting for him to finish his watch. She’s naked already, but he doesn’t rush things anymore. When he slides into the bed he sighs as warmth starts to seep through his skin as soon as he touches her; his hands warm up in no time. They kiss, slow and thorough, and her mouth might be too big but her lips are soft and red when it’s over; he touches her hip with his left hand, feeling the firm muscles underneath, palming her flat stomach, cupping her small breast as her hands roam over his back. Half of her face is scarred and it doesn’t make her look any prettier, but then she opens her eyes and looks at him as if she still can’t believe they’re really doing this, and Jaime can only kiss her again. She never flinches when his stump touches her or the scar on her face, and Jaime knows that not everyone would be as eager to receive that kind of contact. (He can’t help thinking every time that his sister wasn’t.)

She turns them over then (it’s easier when he doesn’t have to balance himself), and if once he was surprised by how much he liked her being on top, now he isn’t surprised anymore. When he moves his good hand up so that he can slide two fingers inside her she’s wet, tight around them, her mouth next to his. He likes the way the blue slowly recedes when she opens her eyes, pupils blow, and he keeps on pushing his fingers inside her. He loves how responsive she is – her entire body shivers in pleasure as she lowers herself on his hand, her motions smooth. No one would guess that she could move gracefully as his fingers slide away and her not-so-slim fingers close around his cock, as gracefully as she moves with a sword in her hand, but he doesn’t mind being the only one who gets to see it. Or to feel it, all the same. When she stops, he’s so hard that it almost aches, but it doesn’t last much; in seconds she’s lowering herself down. She’s still tight around him, and his cock slides in without much of an effort. He reaches up with his good hand, running it along her hip and then cupping her breast again – he likes that it fits beneath his palm. (Sometimes he likes to think that it’s not a coincidence, and then he wonders where that thought even came from.)

He thrusts up slowly, his heart skipping maybe a beat when she moves back matching his pace, her hips rocking down while his own arch up. He keeps it slow when he realizes that she’s not speeding the pace, her hands moving from his shoulders to his size, her fingers running over his skin as if she can’t have enough of touching it.

“Jaime,” she whispers as she moves up and then down again, and he can’t help liking how it sounds. It’s how her voice trembles just slightly that does it, he thinks, and he moves up enough that they can kiss without the position becoming uncomfortable. Her lips are moist against his, kissing him back without hesitation; he moans inside her mouth as he thrusts up again. Jaime knows neither of them is going to last long, he’s _this_  close; as she leans back, he kisses the spot behind her ear, her now longer hair falling all over his face. He keeps his good hand buried inside it as she moves away (it might look more like straw than gold, but it’s still thick), and then lets it fall back into place, his fingers reaching for the small of her back, pushing her down.

Brienne thrusts forward for the last time before turning them over so that he’s on top again; she moans and says his name as she tightens even further around him, her lips slightly parted, her eyes almost all pupil. He comes a handful of seconds later with a last thrust, her skin warm against his. His lips find hers while he’s still coming buried inside her, and if he whimpers into her mouth when one of her hands cups the back of his head, she won’t be the one thinking less of him.

They don’t move for a short while, and when he finally does, it’s just enough to slide out. He lays back down, the bed impossibly warm while he can see hail pounding on the window, and since he’s lying on his left side, he waits for Brienne to reach for the sheets and pull them over. Her eyes stay open, and her pupils aren’t as blown anymore; such lovely eyes, he thinks, even if he doesn’t consider them her only redeeming feature anymore. (Not after he found out that her mouth might not be pretty but that she can use it well, or that her fingers might not be slim but she knows all the right ways to touch him, or that he can kill time counting the freckles on her shoulders. It’s a matter of perspective, he has figured out.)

“Is something bothering you?” Brienne asks maybe minutes later, and he realizes he has been staring all this time without speaking.

“I was just thinking.”

“About what?”

“Nothing of import. I rather like that I wouldn’t know that it was winter if that window wasn’t in front of me.”

“There are enough blankets,” she agrees, and she misses his point completely, but then again maybe he wasn’t clear enough.

“Wench, I wasn’t talking about blankets or sheets. I think you’re warm enough. A lot of people would envy me, if they only knew.”

“Then I suppose I’m lucky that you don’t seem the sort of person who shares.”

Jaime can’t help chuckling against her shoulder – he won’t be the one denying that she’s right. “I’m not.”

“Good for me then,” she answers, settling down on the bed, and as he does the same, his head on the same level as hers, feeling as warm as on any given summer day, he can’t help thinking that if it’s good for her, then for him it’s even better.


End file.
